


Count the Years

by ellebeedarling



Series: After All This Time [11]
Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Eventual Comfort, M/M, Promise, Shepard's Birthday, but has a happy ending, this fic is sad y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 09:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14281842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellebeedarling/pseuds/ellebeedarling
Summary: Five times Shepard was alone on his birthday, and one time he wasn't.





	Count the Years

**Author's Note:**

> It's Commander Shepard's birthday, and I wanted to write this little thing. There's a good bit of angst (because he spent at least 5 birthdays alone) but it has the happy, sappy ending that you've come to expect from me, so fear not. 
> 
> TW: One brief and vague mention of child abuse (physical and sexual.) Nothing explicit or detailed. It's in the fourth piece if you want to skip it. 
> 
> This is tied to my longfic Someone to Love, and many details of Shepard's life are taken from that story.

_Let us never know what old age is._  
_Let us know the happiness time brings,_  
_not count the years._

_Ausonius_

 

* * *

 

  
**1\. Eleven**

Johnny only knew it was his birthday because he’d read it on his birth certificate. Raina had taught him to read and write and how to do basic math calculations. She’d told him that little boys could never hope to survive the world if they didn’t know those things. Johnny believed her, because his only means of survival - of cutting himself off from the hard, ugly world he resided in - was the time he spent in the library poring over the written word. One day he would force himself to better understand the mystical language of mathematics, but for now it was more important that he escape his life by visiting fictional worlds and going on imaginary adventures.

According to the birth certificate, he was eleven years old.

It had always struck him strangely that his mother - Hannah Shepard, which he also knew only because his birth certificate said so - would have bothered to leave his birth certificate with him at all. But when the loneliness of his life overwhelmed him too much, he would take out the small, electronic document and read the simple words over and over as a way of consoling himself. He’d imagine a young woman who looked an awful lot like him, only prettier and less dirty and scraggly. During these brief indulgences, he would let himself picture what life would have looked like if Hannah Shepard had kept him and loved him.

Would they live in an apartment in New York or a farmhouse on some distant colony? Would he have friends and toys, a warm place to sleep? Would they go on adventures together? Would he have a father who loved him, too?

Raina always told him that Hannah had given him away because she’d loved him so much, she’d wanted him to have a better life than what she could give him. It was too impossible to believe that this was the life Hannah Shepard had had in mind for him, though. What kind of mother would want their child to be hungry, dirty, and homeless? What woman would want her son to have to steal in order to eat?

He’d read in a book once about children who were given parties with gifts and cake and friends to laugh and play games with. Johnny had never had any of those things, but Raina always gave him an extra helping of dinner on his birthday - though he’d never realized it was her way of offering him a birthday gift. Raina had died eight months ago, however, so Johnny didn’t even receive that small indulgence this year. His morale was low, and chance had made him take out the document that proved his existence to reread its contents. He only knew what today’s date was because of the sign on the library door stating it was closed due to some religious holiday.

He tried very hard to never cry, but the bleakness of life sometimes overwhelmed him. In those moments, Johnny tried to make himself very small inside of the shabby, cardboard apartment that Raina had crafted for them to live in. He’d hide under the filthy blanket, pilfered from a dumpster or acquired at one of those coat drives that the well-to-do were always holding to make themselves feel better about being so rich. Buried in this smelly cavern, Johnny would let himself cry until his head ached, his throat felt raw, and his even his body felt soggy and heavy from the weight of his tears. It never did any good. Afterward, he felt just as empty as before, only now embarrassed and ashamed on top of it.

But he cried today because it was his birthday, and he wasn’t like the other kids in the universe who were going to have parties with glittering presents and ornate cakes and decadent ice cream. He cried because he wouldn’t receive an extra helping of dinner from Raina - the old woman’s sacrifice of her own meal for a starving, growing boy. He cried because somewhere in the world Hannah Shepard was living her life without him.

Johnny Shepard cried because he was alone.

 

* * *

  
**2\. Seventeen**

  
Shepard knew the morning was just as cold and steely-gray as any other early spring morning in New York, but for him it was red.

As he staggered down an alleyway, heart racing, his body jittered as though connected to a live wire. Ragged, blue sparks danced painfully along his skin as the remnants of the red sand left his body, cutting off the energy supply to his overcharged biotics. It didn’t matter. He’d gotten the job done.

The vestiges of a late snow were piled against the walls of the alley, blackened by the filth of the streets on which Shepard tried to carve a life for himself. In his wake, tiny droplets of crimson fell, evidence of how he’d spent the wee hours of his birthday morning. His eyes burned with grief at the reality of his life.

The drug was fading quickly now and he knew he needed to be home when that happened, or at least somewhere safe. The come down from the red sand always knocked him out for hours, and he couldn’t let himself pass out just anywhere. The ramshackle warehouse where he lived was too far. He’d never make it, but Shepard had contingencies all over the city.

Breaking off down another alley, just as mangy and disgusting as the last, he paused to plunge his hands into the snow and wash away the incriminating blood of his latest victim. He kicked the red snow pile into a sewer grate to wash away with the rest of the city’s detritus, and stumbled along as quickly as his flagging body would let him. He found his nearest hidey-hole and crashed into it, away from the prying eyes of the rest of the city’s homeless and degenerate.

He thought about staying here, just hiding until his body wasted away and all that was left of him was a pile of bitter bones. He thought about the money in his pocket, the price of a man’s life. Rat had been no older than Shepard was now. Seventeen just today. He could take that money and be gone. Hop the next transport off of Earth and see the stars. He could find honest employment and travel the galaxy. But he knew that there was no place he could hide from Big Tommy’s wrath. In the end, his boss would find him and kill him, though Shepard suspected that that would be the outcome of his life anyway, unless the streets claimed him first.

Shepard found the bottle of whiskey that he kept at every one of his nests in the city, and swallowed a long, burning drink to warm himself as his body rejected the loss of the vile red sand. He wouldn’t sleep, not until the shaking subsided, but his control was fading. That’s why he needed to be hidden. The drug left him so weak in the aftermath that he could barely stand. It was getting worse with every hit he took. Soon, he’d have no choice but to either be high or asleep. His body was forgetting how to function without the drug’s presence.

The thought terrified him. He was only seventeen. He should have plans for a life and future that stretched out endlessly before him. Instead, he lay in the dark, gutted and raw from the way the red sand ravished his body and from the certainty that the path he was on would lead to his destruction. More than anything, he didn’t want to die cold and alone and buried underneath the black snow of New York, but desire always conflicted with reality in Shepard’s world.

As his body weakened, his mind drifted to far off places he’d only read about in books. His fingers touched the edges of burning desert sand and glimmering stars, of turian forests and asari lakes. Longing welled within him to be rid of his life and start something new. He would figure it out. He would find a way. He would pull himself out of his quagmire of a life.

Or he would die trying.

 

* * *

 

  
**3\. Nineteen**

  
The training grounds were quiet. Most of his peers were out on the town to celebrate their limited freedom. He was back on Arcturus for a fresh wave of training after having spent the last six months pulling every shit shift and job the captain could send his way while stationed aboard the SSV Elbrus. He’d wanted to escape from the slums of Earth, and he had. Cleaning the head hadn’t exactly been his dream job, but he tried not to complain, tried to remain positive in the face of overwhelming boredom and oftentimes, loneliness, as he went about his daily duties. The Alliance was his ticket to a new life, and he had no intention of squandering it.

Corporal Fields had wanted him to apply for officer training from the start, so he had. He suspected the six months spent under Captain Dannis had been a test of his mettle, but honestly there was nothing the woman could throw at him that was worse that where he’d come from. Shepard had grown accustomed to wallowing in shit. There was little she could have done to break his spirit. He’d taken every order, no matter how insignificant or demeaning, and done it better than anyone else on the ship had ever thought to. By the end of the six months, he’d earned her respect and at least five commendations from her and the other officers aboard the ship.

He’d carried a datapad containing those commendations in one hand and a nearly empty duffel bag in the other as he’d entered the administration building at the Officer Supply Corps on Arcturus a week ago. The file had earned him a raised eyebrow from the Major in charge of the base, but so far it had done little to ease his way during the training. If anything, the training officers seemed to come down harder on Shepard, expect more from him, and once, he’d overheard his TO and a Commander whispering about how he was destined for great things. Shepard never let these things go to his head. He had too much to lose to let pride stand in his way.

One week after beginning officer training, the cadets had been turned loose for an evening of R&R. They were heading out to one of the local dives “to get wasted and laid.” Many of his fellow trainees had harassed him to go along, but Shepard had become accustomed to spending his birthdays alone. He’d never told them, of course. They’d have never let him out of it if he had.

He began by jogging slowly around the PT track, mentally reviewing his notes from his leadership course. He also gave a thought to the rifle and pistol qualifying that was coming up Monday morning. These he expected to pass with flying colors, as he often had in the past.

It felt good to move his body. He was healthier than he’d ever been in his life. Well fed and physically fit, and more importantly, clean for nearly two whole years and free of the Reds and Big Tommy for one. He still looked over his shoulder every time he was out in public, but he was honing himself into a weapon greater than anything he’d been before. Soon he wouldn’t have to live in fear. Maybe one day he could stop running from those ghosts.

He ran five miles without even realizing it, then slowed to a walk to cool his heart rate and muscles. He’d planned to head for the weights station next, but movement at the edge of the training yard caught his eye. Shepard turned in time to catch a young man, about the same age as him, watching him. According to his uniform, the guy was first year. They stared, unblinking. The serviceman’s eyes were almost a clear brown, like amber or a really good whiskey. His head was shaved the same as all other recruits, but John could tell that his hair was dark. He wore a five o’clock shadow that made Shepard a bit envious. John swallowed as the lanky man began to move closer, then opened his mouth to speak. This seemed to break the illusion, however, and the stranger broke away, turning his attention to the jogging track and only sparing one glance over his shoulder at Shepard.

Instead of pursuing or continuing with his training as planned, Shepard headed back for his barracks to shower and get a head start on studying for next week’s classes.

 

* * *

 

 

**4\. Twenty Three**

  
It was shocking how alone a person could feel in a crowd. People buzzed and jostled all around Shepard, but he ignored them, content to stare into the depths of his drink and drown on his own. He was the hero of the day, the man of the hour. The colony on Elysium had been saved due to his quick thinking, perseverance, his duty to his fellow man, and blah, blah, blah. On and on the stuffed suits had droned, as Shepard had sat stiffly on the dais, mouth parched and palms sweating, awaiting a medal too heavy and gaudy to wear.

Now, he was on his way to Rio for N training at the illustrious and longed for Interplanetary Combatives Training school. Shepard felt honored, exhilarated, proud; he felt really fucking terrified. It was another echelon in what was proving to be a stellar military career. That’s what Anderson had told him, at any rate. For Shepard it was simply another step toward the life he wanted. The one where he wasn’t afraid of anything anymore, least of all the ghosts of memories that lurked around every corner.

Sometimes at night, he saw the eyes of Big Tommy, glaring and hideous, in his dreams, and he’d wake in a cold sweat, unable to escape the feeling of being violated and abused. Sometimes it sent him to the toilet to retch his guts up. Other times it sent him to the gym where he’d burn his rage by pushing his body to ridiculous physical extremes - running, lifting, or beating a punching bag for hours on end, until his knuckles were bloody, his body searing with pain, and his lungs screaming from lack of oxygen. Rarely, it sent him to a bar to find some willing body to help take his mind off things for awhile. Even more rare were nights like tonight where his only thought was to drown the memories, the terror, in copious amounts of whiskey. He was making pretty good headway.

It wasn’t until he heard a party singing jubilantly in the corner that he realized it was his birthday. It seemed fitting tonight that he wasn’t in the mood for company. Most of his birthdays he’d spent alone, and it had been five years since he’d heard a cheery greeting to celebrate his birth. It suddenly struck him as a rather depressing thing, and he felt a tear slip down his nose and into his glass before he scornfully swiped it away and began to laugh at himself.

“Cheer up, lad,” the old bartender said in a charming Irish brogue. His weather-worn gray eyes peered compassionately at Shepard from beneath a tattered, navy-blue flat cap. “There’s plenty ‘o fish in th’sea.” He passed Shepard another whiskey and patted him on the hand before moving along.

The fact the old man thought John was lovelorn was as funny as it was pathetic, and in moments he was laughing like a man deranged. It took him several minutes to compose himself, then he polished off his drink, thanked the old man kindly, tipped him too much, and headed for the transport station. He’d take the next shuttle from Arcturus and arrive in Rio hours ahead of schedule, close to midnight. It would still be his birthday, if barely.

At the transport hub, a coffee shop was still open, catering to bleary-eyed travelers at all hours of the day and night. He bought himself a black coffee to help sober him, then, on a whim, indulged in a slice of chocolate cake, which he had packaged up and placed carefully into the top of his duffel bag. In Rio, he wandered the beach alone. It was still early spring, too cold for most, and the beach was practically deserted save a few ambitiously romantic couples strolling hand-in-hand and utterly unaware of the existence of John Shepard.

He’d never spent much time around water. There had been a few rudimentary swimming lessons during basic training, but he wouldn’t even call himself a swimmer. It could cost him a rank in his training, so he was determined to get the hang of it. For tonight though, he was content to sit in the sand, to listen and watch the waves where the moonlight spilled over them in silvery ribbons. He ate his cake, too sweet and rich by far, then lay back on the sand with his hands folded behind his head and watched the stars to the symphony of the ocean.

It was the best birthday he’d had in years.

 

* * *

 

 

**5\. Thirty Two**

  
The last time he’d been alive for his birthday, Kaidan had been there, and John had been rather convinced that he’d never have to spend another birthday alone. He’d been wrong, of course.

When it came to war and military strategy, John Shepard was among the best of the best. He’d been born with a natural talent for it, some had said, and the rest had been drilled and practiced and beaten into his body and brain through hours and years of rigorous training. His personal life, however, had always been somewhat of a shambles. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried to put the broken pieces together into some semblance of a normal, happy life. It was just that the pieces tended to crumble further whenever he handled them too much. He needed help in this area in a way he’d never needed help before. He’d been so sure, so utterly convinced, that Kaidan had been that dreamed-of help. It was hideously crushing to realize that the things he’d believed in weren’t true.

He thought about the wedding rings that he’d placed into a safe deposit box, along with a letter relating to Kaidan posthumously what John had been too cowardly to convey in life. Kaidan hadn’t mentioned the rings on Horizon. Then again, there were many words left unspoken that day. John had hoped for a chance to speak to him again, to smooth things over, to make things right, but Kaidan’s apology letter had come. The tone had been distant, rather than inviting, so Shepard hadn’t responded.

Likely it was better this way. He may very well die before this mission was over, and what would that do to Kaidan? Shepard couldn’t bear to think about it. Liara had unhelpfully reminded him that all life was endangered, that anyone could die at any moment. He needed to grab life by the willows (an expression she’d picked up, and mutilated, from Ashley Williams ages ago, in a simpler life) and talk to Kaidan before it was too late. But John already knew that it was too late. Kaidan would come around on his own, in his own time, or not at all. Shepard’s melancholy personality leaned more heavily in favor of never.

What should have been his thirtieth birthday, in fact, turned out to be his thirty second, and he sat alone in his quarters aboard the Normandy, refusing to read over Kaidan’s letter one more time, or to look at the picture of Kaidan that someone - he’d thought it was Miranda and never learned that it was actually their resident romantic thief who’d done it - had set on the desk in his quarters for him. In fact, he reached over to turn the photo face down, closing his eyes against the tears that threatened to fall, and returned his attention to his reports.

 

* * *

 

 

**6\. Forty**

  
The sun shining through the gauzy curtains of his and Kaidan’s English Bay home had awakened him, either that or Kaidan’s hot mouth doing magnificent things between his legs. It was difficult to be sure, but the results were the same. He was fully awake, and deliriously happy when Kaidan crawled back up the bed to settle smugly onto his pillow. John could never resist kissing those smirks away. They lazed this way for some minutes, mouths pressed together, arms and legs tangled, desire mounting between them.

Murmurs and giggling in the hallway outside their room broke them apart reluctantly, and both of them scrambled to pull on some pajama pants before the kids burst through the door. Fourteen year old Brinley and seven year old Ashley each carried one of their twin siblings - Cameron and Claire, only one year old. All four children piled on the bed and began squealing and chanting happy birthday to their father. Brinley produced a new briefcase with a large red ribbon tied to it, and John flicked his gaze to Kaidan before telling her thank you and accepting a hug. Ashley gave him a card made of construction paper and glitter glue, the sparkling flakes spilled all over the bed, but John was too touched to be cross about it. She also gave him a messily wrapped sweater - charcoal gray with red trim. He could see Kaidan’s handiwork in choosing this gift as well. Shepard accepted these gifts with thanks, then accepted sloppy kisses and coos from the babies as well. In the mayhem, Kaidan slipped away and returned shortly with breakfast on a serving tray - asymmetrical pancakes, burnt bacon, and overdone potatoes. Shepard grinned as Kaidan blushed and shrugged. The girls began boasting of how they’d helped their papa prepare him breakfast in bed for his birthday morning. Shepard thought it was the most delicious meal he’d ever eaten.

The day was spent with little thought or plan. They took the kids to the beach outside their backdoor, even though the water was too cold for swimming, and spent a large portion of their time building sand castles and trying to keep Cameron and Claire from eating sand. They gathered seashells to add to their collection in memoriam of Uncle Mordin, whom the kids never met and Kaidan never knew. The mention of his name always brought a sort of sadness to Shepard’s face, though. Later, they cleaned the shells and tucked them into a shadow box with all the others. They ordered pizza for dinner and ate chocolate cake and strawberry milkshakes - because they’d always been John’s favorite. Then they curled in front of the fireplace with a movie, and when the kids began to fall asleep, John and Kaidan carried the babies to bed, nudging Brinley and Ashley along with them.

Shepard waited on the couch for Kaidan to finish tucking Ashley in for the night, and when he returned, he carried a brightly wrapped present - red paper with a silver bow as Kaidan had done every year for the last seven years. John grinned, protested that Kaidan didn’t have to get him anything more, then eagerly tore the paper from the small box while Kaidan laughed at his boyishness. Beneath the paper lay a new model for John’s collection - this had also become a tradition. Truthfully, he possessed so many now that it was difficult to find a place to display them all, but he’d always find room for the ones Kaidan gave to him. Shepard thanked his husband, then pulled him close for a kiss. Kaidan rolled his eyes and laughed half-heartedly as John murmured into his ear about the present he was most anxious for.

They crept up the stairs, blissfully happy, and fell into the bed together, wasting precious little time in getting at what they wanted. Afterward, Kaidan held him close, uttering a quiet, “Happy birthday, John.”

It had been many years since Shepard had spent a birthday alone. Each year, his family went all out to make sure he felt special and loved. Growing up, he’d had no family, so there was nothing to compare it to. Shepard’s life simply existed in the vague expanse of before Kaidan and after Kaidan, and that was really no comparison at all. Since meeting Kaidan, his life had been vastly fuller and richer, and it was rare these days that he thought of those birthdays of the past at all. Now his days were crammed with love and laughter and building beautiful memories with a beautiful man. This life was something he’d never dared to dream of before. As he lay in the dark, Kaidan’s arms wrapped around him, the pale yellow moonlight spilling into the room, he was struck by a joyous thought:

What a gift it was to be able to measure his life, not in years, but in the happiness he’d discovered along the way.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Find me on tumblr: [ellebeedarling](http://ellebeedarling.tumblr.com)
> 
> Much love,  
> Elle


End file.
